The Prison

Prison for the damned soul
Has no space for standing
For something called the ideal
Or against the lies

Nor is there room
To lie down and wither
Just enough to bear witness
To the hated life

What's the worth of the light of the sun
Without the fire of hate and lust it awakes?
And, what good is the light of the moon
Without spilled blood for it to bless?

The black sun worshipper
Denied himself, denied life
Because of his convictions
He let everything fade away

Is it a choice to abandon
The inner saviour, inner master
When your fate didn't matter
Even to those most luminous beings?

What's the worth of the light of the sun
Without the fire of hate and lust it awakes?
And, what good is the light of the moon
Without spilled blood for it to bless?